


The Minutia

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Rewrite, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Trauma, recovery from torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: He remembers night after night spent shivering in the dark, trying desperately to hold the pieces of his flesh together, terrified to utter a single syllable in case they heard him. He’d sworn to himself then that they’d never make him talk, not for anything.Nothing in the world could make him break that promise.*This is a complete Rewrite of 'Minutia'





	The Minutia

**Author's Note:**

> Four years I have spent writing this fic now.
> 
> I've never rewritten a story before, and probably never will again. But Minutia is a bit different; my anger after series four got in the way, and it was never meant to end the way it did.
> 
> ***Edited 23/4/18 to include Mycroft's segment

 

 

It would be nice if there were cobblestones; slate coloured, the small square ones that everyone romanticises. They pave the streets in lots of European cities; they look appropriately quaint.

The surface of the stones give an interesting texture; mostly rounded but uneven in places, with deep satisfying grooves of grout between them you can run your fingers through. Smooth like pebbles from a riverbank, they’re typically quite varied; each and every one unique.

Concrete is not any of these things; it’s blank and flat and impersonal with no meaningful end. Walls, floors, ceilings; they’re all identical. Harsh and cold; it’s not stimulating to touch, not comfortable to lie on, and has absolutely nothing meaningful or interesting to show. Apart from chemical make-up, blemishes or stains; concrete does not like to be deduced.

Yet, for something with so little to say, the infinite  _sameness_  still manages to be so impossibly loud.

You often hear a room described as featureless. But people are lazy. No one room is ever truly a blank slate; there is always data there, you just have to know how to find it.

Because while the structure may be basic, the building is _old_. And with age comes character; all the little eccentricities, oddities built up over time. Not much to look at perhaps, but beneath the surface, still plenty to see.

Detail is good, it’s _useful_ , because the more you break it down, the harder you have to concentrate.

Like the drain. It’s just a drain; no different to the billions of others like it in the world. Only; it _is_ , isn’t it? Because circumstance, age, wear, time; they dictate it. Scratches, stains, the build-up of mould; random variations, impossible to replicate. Time makes changes to us all; _nothing_ remains truly identical, and on the smallest of levels, this drain is utterly singular.

Small, square, but not quite symmetrical; not only is the metal plate levelled incorrectly, there’s a little chip towards the centre, where the brass is less dull. To the fingertip, it feels rough, but not quite enough to be sharp. If nothing else, it brings contrast, breaking up the grey of the concrete that embeds it.

He’s looking for the minutia, to deduce every aspect of this severe little room down to its molecular structure. Circumstance is meaningless, and context is destructive; how and why have no place here. What’s in the present is all we have.

Room for conscious thought has limitations, so theoretically, if we think hard enough about what we see immediately in front of us, allow a single facet of life to fill up all that space, then at least for one moment; nothing else will exist.

Observation can be an extremely useful technique for distraction.

Sherlock Holmes is living one second at a time.

~

The door is the main feature, based purely on mass alone. Thick steel, but still fairly standard as far as doors go; floor to ceiling, rectangular, opens one way. Unimaginative.

It certainly draws the eye, and the scratches accumulated over time seem to have no structure or meaning. But if you study them, really  _look_  closely at each one, trace their paths with your palms, indents with your fingernails; you might be able to see how they were formed. Each separate, but not random.

Together; they tell a _story_.

But stories have context, and context here, is more dangerous than any gun.

The hinges are his favourite, the most complex component. Industrial strength, they are fastened to the concrete with four bolts each; heavy duty and rounded off. He imagines the bolts would be very difficult to dislodge without a cutting torch.

It’s the concept that makes them interesting, the way they are designed to allow for physical motion. It’s quite a beautiful invention if you really think about it; the hinge creates a perfect pivot point between the door and the wall that allows for an angle of rotation. When force is applied to one side of the door, it creates a torque effect, and the door glides open.

So simple, yet so innocuously brilliant.

Avoiding boredom can be difficult. You can’t observe anything too long or too frequently lest the idea gradually lose its appeal; it’s all about moderation. Discipline is what keeps us alive.

In the corner, a water pipe is rusting, little flakes of iron oxide peeling off. The water inside is almost certainly contaminated; lead, silt, any number of toxins. He monitors the progress of the oxidation closely, watching the pipe with all his concentration, waiting for it to leak. Even just one drop.

The globe above him is incandescent, probably installed in the late 90s, and just clinging to life; operating at barely thirty percent capacity. The consistency of the light makes it impossible to distinguish the difference between day and night, but he is grateful for it anyway. You can’t see in the dark.

The importance of all this is becoming increasingly difficult to remember, as he struggles to focus on the minutia, rather than the rest.

Because there  _is_  more, and he is so very, very cold.

 ~

He doesn’t sit much now or pass the time by looking; he spends a lot more time with the concrete.

He doesn’t like the hinges anymore, because the association now is not that they _can_ move; it’s that they  _do_.

The cold makes it hard to concentrate, and the repetition is starting to grate. He cycles through; hinges, drain, light, door, trying to maintain that focus, to hold it all back. But the pain is too much now; it rips away the minutia, destroying everything in its path.

It’s windows like this, where discipline slips, and context becomes lethal; it’s conscious acknowledgement.

_He is a prisoner._

_These men are torturing him._

_And they are never going to stop_.

He’d give his life for a jumper; his soul for warm soup. His last two possessions, not counting his limbs. He’ll get that jumper soon enough though; could be any day now. At least in hell he’ll be warm, and; he thinks he might even be able to bargain for some soup.

It’s hard now, to remember how he ever cared about concrete. It’s a good exercise though; it kept the silence from killing him, worked as a distraction from the pain.

Pain, now, is probably the only thing he  _does_  care about.

The hinges squeal and he jolts upright, terror shooting down every nerve.

_They’re coming for him._

He doesn’t think he can do this again.

~

He’s quite glad John thinks him dead.

The thought comes to him in a bizarre moment of clarity, in a situation where really, he should not have been able to register anything  _but_  the pain.

It’s dangerous; thoughts of home are not allowed, and especially not here. Surrounded by enemies, both shoulders slowly dislocating; he cannot afford this. He’s not supposed to remember who he is or was, and it’s too close, too close to the surface. That place, those people, they _cannot_ be in the forefront of his mind.

_He’s got to push it down._

He needs to find a distraction; something else to think about, and he needs to do it now. But there’s no focus left to be found, no concentration for the minutia, no energy to stop his mind from cannibalising itself.

The world has taken it all, and he has nothing left to give.

Sherlock can feel himself starting to slip, desperately trying to focus on nothing; because if his mind buckles now, he’ll tell them everything. And he must  _never_  allow that to happen.

But pain does terrible things to a man. Because he  _could_. The option is there. The pain will stop if he does. They’ll stop hurting him, everything will be over. All he needs to do; is speak.

And he can no longer trust that he won’t.

To break his cardinal rule is his last defence. Only John Watson can save him now.

Because, Sherlock is dying, he can feel it.

He’s only glad there’s no one waiting.

Because the lie is a kindness now; John can never know that he lived only to die this way, here, in this place. It would be senseless, impossibly cruel. Some things are just not meant be heard.

Talking won’t change what is happening to him. There’s not a word in the world that will take this pain back.

If John doesn’t know he’s alive, then he doesn’t know what they are doing to Sherlock’s flesh, and for that at least he can be grateful.

_He’s so tired._

~

He blows the cover of six agents for a sip of water; it’s real intelligence, names only a spook could know, but they fail to make the connection somehow, or don’t know what to do with it. They rip pen and paper from his hand, and force vodka down his throat instead.

Ironically, dying of dehydration turns out to save his life.

Something is happening; orders are barked, and the room clears in seconds. Except Neck Tattoos; he stays put. He’s the strongest, and most creative of the bunch, but visits only sporadically; he causes far too much damage.

He’s been chosen for a reason; they want to impress. Sherlock has a  _visitor_. And, he is almost certainly going to die.

Somehow the thought still scares him.

But perhaps it’s for the best.

~

_There’s going to be so much pain._

~

There’s much ceremony for his entrance. Someone of significant rank then; he clearly terrifies them. Sherlock’s visitor waits until they are alone with Neck Tattoos before he makes himself comfortable for the show.

The Stranger never says a word, and that; is a very bad sign.

Interest from higher up says his cover has been blown. Sherlock’s leak has not gone unnoticed, and from the names provided; The Stranger would have to be an idiot not to recognise Sherlock as MI6.

Suddenly death no longer seems so frightening. Sherlock wishes they’d killed him _days_ ago, brutally and sadistically. Because he knows what’s coming, and he knows he can’t fight it.

This is a professional, and Sherlock is just too far gone.

Until Neck Tattoos escalates to the pipe; Sherlock knows this man will break him. Up until that moment, The Stranger gives no indication of anything. But just before the swing, his breathing stutters.

He must know Sherlock is a hairs breath from breaking point, victory just minutes away. But physiology doesn’t lie; The Stranger did not  _want_  that pipe to hit him.

The pain blurs his vision and he gasps for air. He’s missed something important, something glaringly obvious, but he hasn’t been able to concentrate in  _weeks_. Not that it really matters all that much at this point.

Neck Tattoos is ordered to leave the room, and when the door bangs shut, the man stands, straightening his coat.

“So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.”

He speaks, and though he’s wearing their language as a mask; his accent is unmistakably  _not_  Serbian. Quite a terrible impression at that, but Sherlock has absolutely no idea what this means; surprised he’s even aware enough to notice. All he can think about is his right shoulder; it feels like they’re sawing off his _arm_.

“You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”

The fist in his hair in not nearly as cruel as you’d have thought in the circumstances; he’s not twisting; he just wants to see his face. For _confirmation_.

_It’s over._

_They’re all dead._

_He’s killed them for a sip of water._

_A sip he didn’t even **get**._

When he speaks again in his natural tongue, it barely even registers. Sherlock doesn’t understand, doesn’t believe it, can’t speculate, can’t breathe.

_They’re all going to die._

“It’s me Sherlock.” Mycroft sounds anxious.

_Oh God, it hurts so much._

~

The vehicle jolts and bumps along the track, someone beside him barking for it to go faster.

He’s wearing a jumper, so he must be dead. But if you can still feel pain after death, then there truly is no liberty to be had.

And Sherlock is in _agony_.

His brother calls his name with increasing urgency, but Sherlock doesn’t breathe a word.

~

“You do have to speak some time you know.”

His brother looks like he hasn’t left the hospital in weeks, though he must have done at some point, because his suit has changed. Sherlock has been here for a while now; he doesn’t know what date it is, or when his last birthday was, and he’s not quite sure when he stopped keeping track.

The doctors and nurses keep him regularly updated as to his condition, and he tries to pay attention, but finds he’s not particularly interested in much they have to say. Summary; torture, surgery, more surgery, and probably more to come. But there’s morphine, and lots of it, which is really all he needs to know; still living second by second in the present.

Initially they worried that it was brain damage rendering him mute, so they did lots of complicated and probably very expensive tests. They’ve concluded by now, presumably, that his voice works perfectly well, but still; Sherlock refuses to communicate.

He remembers night after night spent shivering in the dark, trying desperately to hold the pieces of his flesh together, terrified to utter a single syllable in case they heard him. He’d sworn to himself then that they’d never make him talk, not for  _anything_.

Nothing in the world could make him break that promise.

~

“I’m worried about you.”

Mycroft saved Sherlock from a particularly agonising death, and he supposes he’s grateful. To grant some concessions would only be fair, but his brother’s concern always comes at a price, and there’s always an agenda. Because while he genuinely _is_ worried; ultimately, Mycroft just wants to make him talk.

Sherlock doesn’t need sympathy.

“Don’t you want to know about John?”

And there it is. Sherlock is getting very tired of people using the lives of his friends as a bargaining chip.

But Mycroft can keep his tricks; John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson are all perfectly fine. If they weren’t, they would be having an entirely different conversation several weeks from now when Sherlock is ‘strong enough to take the loss.' 

Truthfully, they both know Sherlock could never be strong enough for that, but the answer is still no. He doesn’t want to hear about John. John is fine, and not something he can think about right now. Sherlock would much prefer to avoid conscious thought entirely.

Now it's Mycroft who doesn’t know what to say.

~

Now his lungs are stable, and the chest tube has come out, he is deemed fit for a kidney transplant. Because for some reason, everyone seems so determined to keep putting holes in him. If they keep going at this rate, he won’t have any of his own organs left to replace.

This type of cell is much warmer; it hurts less, and there is so much more to look at. The walls, floor, and ceiling still all look pretty much the same, but they’re clean and white; they’re safe.

Having a bed is nice, even though the sheets smell like disinfectant and he keeps getting blood all over them. It’s soft, and he knows from experience that hospital beds are supposed to be uncomfortable, but Sherlock is used to a very different brand of discomfort by now. Concrete doesn’t have pillows, or a blanket for the cold.

There are lots of machines with lots of lights and buttons which make lots of very persistent noises. Inexplicably, he doesn’t find them annoying, but when he hears the _ping_ of the feeding tube running empty, it makes him want to cry.

Not even for the noise itself, just by association.

Associations, we have lots of them; sights, sounds, smells permanently welded to the memories in our heads. Half the time they make very little sense, but that doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you.

Sherlock doesn’t think he will ever look at a door hinge the same again.

But the association for _this_ noise is completely rational; it corresponds directly to the humiliation of the tube forced down his throat. He cried and fought upon waking, even barely conscious, and Mycroft had to restrain him just to keep Sherlock from pulling it out.

It’s just one tiny detail of his treatment, something thousands of patients go through every day; absolutely insignificant compared to some of the other procedures and tubes. It’s hard to say why, but he can’t stand it, the minutia haunting him.

Initially he thought perhaps he’d rather die, but he’s still undecided on that point.

He thinks about it a lot though, death. He’d been so terrified of dying there, in that place, in so much pain. Instinctual self-preservation is a reflex; to fight for life. But the stimuli torturing him are no longer applicable, and without that hostility; the desperation of chaos is gone.

Because dying here would be very different to the death he was faced with. It’s safe, it’s warm; it wouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t especially _want_ to die, but he hasn’t the same urgency for life.

Change of room, change of perspective. Sherlock isn’t afraid anymore.

~

Having a window is nice. He can only see down to the courtyard of the campus, but there’s grass, trees; people standing around smoking or hobbling down the path. It rains a lot, and there aren’t many leaves to speak of, so it must be winter, but he doesn’t feel the cold.

He observes the people below as they pass and wonders if he’s going to have to use a cane. Associations again; a war veteran with an illogical limp. Sherlock isn’t ready to start thinking about canes just yet.

He cries a lot; for no reason. He doesn’t even feel particularly sad, he just cries and cries.

It doesn’t faze the nurses too much, they must be used to these things; but the first time  _Mycroft_ walks in to find him crying, it seems to matter a whole lot more. Sherlock could tell him he’s okay, but he doesn’t.

One day Mycroft brings with him a chess board; beautifully crafted from marble and stone. They play, and Mycroft usually wins but not always, and no one gets cross. After he leaves, Sherlock holds the black queen for hours, thinks of slate cobblestones, and cries until dawn. 

Mycroft visits every day at exactly 4pm, and he stays until 6. The British Government must not have all that much on if they can spare him; his brother hasn’t taken this much time off in nine years. But Sherlock finds himself looking forward to his visits; he’s always loved chess, and Mycroft is the only one who can beat him.

He’s also probably the only one who can even begin to understand.

They don’t always play. Sherlock is heavily medicated, and most of the time can’t concentrate on anything. By now his veins probably consist of more narcotics than blood. Sometimes Mycroft will work, or he’ll just talk. Sometimes they sit in silence as Sherlock cries. Mycroft comes regardless, even when Sherlock is too exhausted to look at him.

Sometimes the pain is unbearable. That’s when he cries for a reason, and Mycroft will stroke his hair and remind him that it’s temporary. He thinks without him he’d go mad.

Sherlock loves Mycroft. He always has, even though he’s a rubbish big brother. Perhaps he’s trying to make up for that, and it’s nice to see him making the effort. Sherlock forgave him years ago, and it’s hard now, to remember why he never told him.

He’s improving; enough that he can sit on the end of the bed, in the chair by the window, and on days that he’s stronger; he can make it to the bathroom unassisted.  Sleeping on his back for extended periods remains a problem.

When the weather is good, Mycroft will wheel him to the courtyard, and they’ll play chess until Sherlock is too tired to move the pieces; even if it’s after six.

The sun is weak, but the sky seems endless; there’s so much  _space_. If he were standing, the sight would certainly bring him to his knees.

He never says a word. Perhaps that’s why he’s on such good terms with the nursing staff.

~

Sherlock  _hates_  physio.

Ten minutes of lifting one leg off the floor should not reduce you to tears. Resistance exercises make him shake and fold, and he struggles with weights a child could juggle. His doctors are patient but uncompromising; they push him hard. And while Sherlock is grateful for their tenacity, he hates them with a vengeance.

They like him because he doesn’t complain.

Walking takes time to work up to. He’s rebuilding muscles you should be able to take for granted, ones you never think about; until they’re gone. When deprived of nourishment to that extent, the body begins to eat itself, and once the fat is depleted, desperate measures are called for.  His mind was not the only thing cannibalised.

Sherlock has always lived in a world of extremes. But this time is  _bad_. He hardly recognises himself.

~

The first time Mycroft’s barber comes in, it is a disaster.

Sherlock is completely numb, and the weight on his scalp falling away is a relief that feels almost like healing; the barber unburdening him one cut at a time. They make it half way through without a problem, but it doesn’t stay that way. One moment Sherlock is having a haircut in Germany, the next, he’s 697 miles south east

Because sometimes, the most dangerous associations of all, are the ones we don’t even know we have.

It’s just a reflection, a tiny orange light from the monitors mirrored onto the barber’s shears. But that’s not what Sherlock sees.

Sherlock watches an entirely different shade of orange dance along a very different sort of blade. The memory takes him by surprise and sparks an electricity storm that short circuits _everything_. There’s screaming and white noise and violence. Objects fly, and he winds up on the floor.

Sherlock’s back is bleeding _everywhere_ , sutures torn, tools scattered around him.

The only noise in the room is the beeping of machines, and the sound his blood makes as it drips from the chair.

Sherlock stares at his shaking hands; shocked by his violence, more by his utter loss of control. He’d no idea he would react that way, never meant to hurt anyone, and the discovery of this reflex leads him to a terrible self-diagnosis. He is not just wounded.

He’s traumatised.

And there’s nothing to be done. A reflex is uncontrollable by definition; he’s no way of predicting when it will strike, or what he might do. A normal brain produces hundreds of thousands of associations in a lifetime, and Sherlock has a mind too inquisitive to stifle. Patterns in the seemingly unconnected.

Literally _anything_ could set it off.

Statistically, this incident will not remain isolated. No one is hurt but himself, but what about next time, the time after that?

This is more than just doubt; Sherlock can no longer trust his own mind.

~

The numbness isn’t something that has worn off exactly, he just seems to have found another  _way_  to be numb, another level. They’ve halved his pain medication, and without that; he’s starting to _think_.

Sherlock misses the shock, he wants them to give it back.

He’s still living in the bubble the world beat him into. Before, he was just going through his treatments, focussing on his injuries, still operating on that higher plain of numbness. But ever since the incident with the barber, the world is rushing in.

Now he knows why he cries.

Without the minutia to distract him, or the medication to stifle it, he’s remembering how it  _felt_  on those nights. Not the pain or the cold exactly, but what it was like to be a  _human being_  inside that skull. He’s beginning to understand what happened to him on an emotional level.

And it’s destroying whatever parts he has left.

~

Sorrow.

It’s a short word. Just two syllables to encompass something that is so very specific, and so infinitely more complex.

More than just one feeling, sorrow is a conditional state of being; the by-product of compounding any number of negative emotional states and circumstances. All definitions aside, he never really thought about what sorrow  _is_  precisely.

Emotions are something he’s spent his life trying to avoid, and quite successfully too, for the most part. He’s always felt them; but nothing like _this_.

Something happened to him in Serbia that he doesn’t understand, trauma rewiring his brain in ways he can’t explain. Sherlock is a chemist, but science has no answers here; reason can’t help him in the face of the undefined.

Sherlock _knows_ what sorrow is now; he’s lived the power of the word.

He dreams about raw fingernails clawing against concrete, and desperate scratches carved into solid steel; about trying to kill himself using a chip in a drain. He knows he has to feel these things in order to heal, but he can’t seem to predict when that room will come back to him.

Despair sinks his bubble so far beneath the surface he knows he will never get back up.

~

There’s talk of discharging him.

The nurses are more comfortable now he’s looking less and less like he might just go ahead and _die_ the second their backs are turned. He’d been  _that_  ICU patient; the unstable one in the corner that no one wants to be assigned to, frustrating his doctors with his inability to heal on schedule.

But now his KPI’s are improving steadily, getting better at reaching milestones at the correct times.

Improbably, with physiotherapy most of all. Though not _completely_ healed, Sherlock is almost as strong as he was three months ago crossing the border from Montenegro. His recovery is lauded as nothing short of miraculous. But miracles aren’t supposed to hurt, and Sherlock’s back is more sutures than skin.

They’re satisfied with his progress and think he is well enough to continue treatment as an outpatient, which is good. But Sherlock has been cocooned in the warmth and safety of Ward 6 for over eight weeks now, shielded from the responsibilities of everyday life.

Now, he is expected to _participate_.

But Sherlock is homeless, legally dead, and damaged beyond recognition. His friends, his occupation, his way of life, even his name; he’s lost it all.

Because the past two years; that wasn’t living, that wasn’t _life_.

It was existence, tenuous at that. Breathing, running, killing, lying. One man in a world of chaos, with no boundaries, and no consequences; only the fear of death, the will to survive.

He’s been out of touch from reality for so long Sherlock doesn’t even know what it is he’s coming home to.

The future is a completely blank slate, with no way to know how to move forward, or what might lie waiting in the shadows. Infinite possibilities, thousands of choices, _hundreds_ of decisions to be made.

And Sherlock doesn’t have any of the answers.

They drop cheerful hints, implying his freedom might be imminent with thinly disguised excitement in their voices. As if they’re giving him a gift, waiting for him to light up like a beacon, grateful for such good news. His refusal to celebrate ruins everyone’s day.

He opts for a panic attack instead.

His last night, sleep won’t come, and he stands in the bathroom with the black queen; worrying the night nurses until dawn.

Rehabilitated or not; the man he sees in the mirror has been pushed too far. There’s something about the eyes, it’s hard to say what, but they scare him.

He reaches out a hand to the man’s cheek; and leaves two fingerprints on the glass.

~

The morning of his discharge flows around him like a stream. A nurse who likes him slips Sherlock lorazepam to keep him sane. Or more likely, it’s self-preservation; she saw what happened with the barber.

Torture victims; always tricky.

He sits on the end of the bed in the clothes that were given to him, and watches life happen as if to someone else. Bodies rush in and out of the room, handing him things, taking things off him, speaking at rather than to. He feels like a doll.

He signs endless pieces of coloured paper, and half listens as the Very Serious People lecture him about Very Serious Things. They ask dozens of Important Questions that it is Very Important he answer. He nods blandly until they give up, push a Very Excessive amount of pills into his hands, and send him on his way.

He sleepwalks out of the hospital and into the frigid Landstuhl air, when really; he should have been wheeled out in a bag.

Mycroft makes a point of not looking at Sherlock in the car, though he is clearly itching to. Sherlock just sits there staring at his plastic bag of pills.

They board a flight to Heathrow the next morning.

Sherlock is going home.

Just like that.

~

For two years, his brother has been running, knowing that he couldn’t stop. He gave his life in dedication to this cause. Because there were _other_ lives in the balance, ones that for Sherlock; were indispensable.

Dismantling Moriarty’s network was a very messy and complicated business. Sherlock was right in the middle of it all, just trying to get by with each day, and when you’re lost in the chaos on the ground, it can be hard to remember to take a step back.

Endings can be such elusive things; we often don’t see them even when they are staring us in the face. This was the problem with Sherlock’s commitment, because when could he know that it was over, _really_   _over_? How could he ever be sure if it were safe?

How do you choose, when that one decision could be a death sentence?

They can never know, even now. There will always be the risk. 

In that mind frame, absolute certainty does not exist, the risk is  _always_  too great. There would always be one more man to chase; one more tenuous connection to hunt down, one more threat to destroy. With no clear end in sight, he would have had to make the conscious choice to step down and walk away.

Sherlock may not have known it, but he was never coming home. The responsibility was too much. He would have simply gone on running, too afraid to stop. He needed someone to tell him it was over, to give him  _permission_  to let go; because it was a call he just could not make.

Attempting to monitor Sherlock was futile.

MI6 have been wanting this for a  _very_  long time, ever since Sherlock first came onto their radar at age nine. They were desperate to have him, and he can see why, Sherlock’s abilities make for an invaluable asset. But there was just one small problem with that. There is absolutely no conceivable way that Sherlock Holmes could  _ever_  qualify for selection. His profile would never make it past the first screening process. 

To allow it would be an act of madness.

The entrance criteria demand a candidate must undergo thousands of layers of security checks, as well as rigorous, physical, emotional, and psychological evaluations. And of all these requirements; Sherlock does not meet a single one.

Their  _own protocols_  dictate for his immediate exclusion. His is the sort of application that would result in him being a level three ‘Watch and Act;’ identifying him as a person of interest. The vetting processes are strict; and there are absolutely  _no_  exceptions. 

That hasn’t prevented them from trying to recruit him on numerous occasions.

It wasn’t long before he dropped off the map completely. England sat back with her feet up, and watched as a criminal empire fell to its knees; a one man mission that puts world powers to shame.

Sherlock’s anger was _unstoppable_.

A task such as this is unprecedented. Alone; it’s suicide.

Mycroft counted the days passing, watched as Sherlock’s exile stretched out, months threatening to turn into years. And still no word.

He’d known it’d been too long.

Realistically, Sherlock was dead. He was gone. It was time to accept that and move on. But no matter the statistics; Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Thinking that because this was  _Sherlock_  it would be somehow different. Sherlock could survive  _anything_. Textbook denial.

He spent two Christmases not knowing if he would ever see his brother again, but grieving him all the same.

It isn’t until two years later, when intel comes screaming in from Serbia saying that everything is going to shit, that anyone started caring about what was happening to Sherlock Holmes.

When they finally  _did_  get to him, Mycroft feared Sherlock’s mind was already lost.

Again he underestimated him.

Sherlock refused to let them break him. But the damage is harrowing.

~

“Brother.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He  _never_ responds. He refuses to speak.

Seeing his brother this way is uncomfortable, it frightens him. Sherlock is the only person who even comes close to Mycroft’s level of intellect. He is  _also_  the only thing encountered to date he has never been able to control; one singular uncontrolled variable in his neat, orderly world.

God knows he tried to help him.

Aggravating as this is, one can’t really help but respect his tenacity.

But stubbornness alone does not make strength, not without discipline. Messy and chaotic, Sherlock lacks any form of it. But while he may not condone his choice of lifestyle, he knows his brother’s mind, and he has always understood why.

The difference between them is chemical; a state which he long concluded is not possible to overcome. Where Mycroft’s genius empowers, Sherlock’s destabilises. He’s one giant, walking self-destruct button. Exactly the type of person you do  _not_  want having access to top level security clearance.

Or indeed a gun. His mania has highs, and it has devastating lows. He’d have shot himself years ago; just because he was bored.

Emotions wage war inside his head. All his life, Mycroft has watched him suffer for it. One day he will die by it, Mycroft only prays it not be by his own hand.

The day they met Mycroft imagined he saw a brain like his own; sharp senses, a brilliant mind. So much raw potential. He remembers thinking that perhaps he was not alone in this world after all.

He’d known all along that fieldwork would kill his brother; that throwing his mind out there into all that chaos could only end in disaster. Sherlock Holmes against planet Earth.

Fratricide, or close enough.

The doctors tell him it will take time, that Sherlock will come to speak on his own. They clearly do not know how stubborn he is.

The muteness is simply the most obvious expression of Sherlock’s trauma. Focussing on that, he acknowledges is his coping strategy; looking for something he can fix, but Mycroft should know better.

He cannot make Sherlock speak; you cannot  _make_  Sherlock do  _anything_.

The chess was a stroke of genius; a way to interact on Sherlock’s terms. To play is comfortingly familiar; through the moves Mycroft recognises his brother, the strategies he uses, his thought patterns. He plays the same way he always has.

But Sherlock has been deeply traumatised, there are not words for what they did to him. There are moments where he loses all touch with reality, regressing back to the moments of his capture. The flashbacks are violent and confronting, but the depressions he falls into are far more disturbing.

The physical truth is that Sherlock is a mess. At first, he is bedridden and covered in tubes, too weak to sit up; nutrition is force-fed to him, via a tube down his nasal passage and into his stomach. The indignity of the tube affects Sherlock so badly it’s uncomfortable to watch.

He makes progress and then slides back again and again. His organs fail, the wounds become infected, and he is rushed into emergency surgery. In the first few days they nearly lose him half a dozen times. Just when they dare to think he might pull through, a pneumothorax has him on a ventilator, and his wounds enter into sepsis.

Mycroft stands at his bedside, stares at his skin, and forces himself to accept that this is  _Sherlock’s_  back, not some strangers. This is Sherlock’s pain, those will be Sherlock’s scars. This is happening to  _Sherlock_.

Some of the hospital staff said it was the worst they’d seen. No one could have anticipated that they would be here now. No one even expected that he’d make it.

There are still days when even Mycroft cannot reach him.

~

London is everywhere and it’s choking him to death.

Sherlock stays with Mycroft for ten days and barely leaves his room; watching the rain from his window seat. The traffic, the people, the noises; it’s overwhelming, even through the glass. The intensity of them almost comes across as violent, but the lorazepam slows it down.

But his brother presents before him the most beautiful coming home gift he ever could have imagined; zero options. Mycroft has Sherlock’s re-introduction to society dictated down to the contents of the pantry.

It’s a good plan.

He needs to be in his own home, surrounded by his own things and the handful of good memories he has left. Maybe then life will feel real again.

The flat is clean, and exactly as he left it, except of course for the fact that it’s vacant. John Watson hasn’t lived here in more than a year.

He’d expect to have found this upsetting, and maybe he does. Because Sherlock hasn’t felt anything good in a long time, and in that constant state of sorrow, how can he distinguish the bad from any specific cause? Is he upset now, or was he just in pain already?

He might be devastated, he just doesn’t know anymore.

Sherlock stands in the middle of his sitting room, just looking. He hadn’t thought to remember how it smelt, or how the air tasted on him tongue. It’s the minutia again; the sort of things you don’t register when you live in a space every day.

He appreciates it so much more now.

Tears slip down his cheeks; not because there  _is_  space, but because it is  _his_ ; somewhere he finally belongs.

In the morning, he showers in his own bathroom, puts on his own clothes, makes tea in his own kitchen, with his own mug; and almost feels like a human being again.

He finishes his tea, washes, dries, and puts away his cup. Sherlock looks at the kitchen around him, down the hallway, and out the sliding doors to the sitting room.

And just like that he’s lost again.

Because this _isn’t_ 221B as it was, it’s _not_ 2012, and he is _not_ better; the past two years still happened, and there’s no escaping them.

He never thought he’d get this far.

~

Faking his death will never be a regret. It destroyed his life, his heart, whatever shred of innocence he might have had; even the lives he was trying to save. But more and more, he is beginning to wonder if his mistake; was in making it a suicide.

Before, these thoughts would not be allowed. The waters are dangerous here, but he doesn't swim for the shore. This is After. Anything goes.

Sherlock can’t  _not_  think about anything.

Would it have been possible to frame it as murder? Perhaps without the phone call; John would never have accepted suicide as an explanation without absolute proof. A murder-suicide would have been just as plausible and even more palatable; Moriarty manipulates Sherlock into taking his own life and then blows his brains out.

Maybe Moriarty could even have pushed him.

Sherlock should have jumped the second he saw John leave that cab, eliminate the truth and let assumptions run wild. Less painful for everyone involved.

No one can change the past, but if given the chance, he’d choose to murder himself instead.

Because the problem now, as he sees it; is that he lost the  _option_.

A choice he might never have made, but sacrosanct in its privacy; the last choice a person _can_ make. One that should be his alone.

It’s something he’s contemplated at several points in his life. Never had he really meant it, but just the idea of that final freedom…the possibility, the empowerment of having that available; it served as a comfort of sorts.

He still needs that idea, now more than ever; the option of an emergency exit. Because everything hurts, and nothing makes sense. But that door closed in his face, and it’s undeniably not good; but this loss, he feels it on a deeply personal level.

You can only take your own life once.

~

The world is too bright, too loud, and Sherlock’s mind is in tatters.

Until John Watson appears on his doorstep.

For months, Sherlock has not said a single word, and just the sight of him there in the doorway pumps concrete through his gut. But he drinks him in, because at the same time his heart is bursting in his chest, and for the very first time; it’s not from agony.

He absorbs every tiny little detail of this man, his best friend who just two months ago; he’d prayed would never see him again. Not as he was.

He scans every blond hair and every grey, every wrinkle, each new line. Sherlock flings himself into deducing this man and everything he is.

Harry bought him this shirt, and the colour suits him perfectly, but she got the measurements wrong; too loose at the sides, too short in the sleeves.

John’s jeans and shoes are at least two years old, and they desperately need replacing, but in this moment, Sherlock is desperately glad he _hasn’t_ ; because he _knows_ them, they’re familiar. With every detail uncovered, the screaming of his brain becomes softer.

Because _John_ is familiar.

He’s lost a significant amount of weight; his belt two notches tighter than it was, but Sherlock is hit by an almost overwhelming sense of relief, because John Watson is not using his cane. Psychosomatic symptoms are inherently unpredictable, and for two years, Sherlock worried about the re-emergence of the limp.

Finally, Sherlock brings himself to John’s expression, and doesn’t understand what he sees. Because he finds a relief there that matches his own. John Watson is not angry that he is alive. It’s John’s right, but the absence lifts the weight from his intestines.

There’s always something he misses, but only John has the ability to completely blindsight him, and Sherlock’s not quite sure how he manages to do it; but the way John surprises him is almost always for the better.

Not angry in the slightest, five seconds in the room; and John Watson is _worried_ about him.

It’s better than he could have hoped for; Sherlock’s mind is already so fragile, and he’s not sure he would be able to handle John’s emotional turmoil on top of his own. There’s so much happening in his brain that he doesn’t understand, and it’s impossible to know which parts he can afford to touch or even what will happen if he does. Murphy’s Law haunting his conscious efforts to unpack.

Sherlock wants to go back to the person he was with John; confidence, recklessness, excitement. He wants to take a case tomorrow like nothing has changed.

But there’s so much in doubt.

Sherlock can’t be certain his brain even _works_ that way anymore, and he doesn’t know if he wants to find out. Everyone staring, waiting for him to solve it, not knowing himself if he _can_ ; concerned about making even the smallest of decisions as it is, that sort of pressure is not something he could handle.

His sanity is hanging on an already tilting balance, and he just can’t see a way to save it.

Sherlock is still too terrified to speak, weeks of indoctrination conditioning speech to mean death. In the hospital he was numb, had no interest in talking, apathetic towards everyone. But the truth is, he _can’t_.

He’s tried to force it, but his subconscious shuts him out. All logic has flown out the window, and his body is betraying him.

Because it’s not true, but part of Sherlock still believes that to speak would be to kill them all. His own psychosomatic wound.

He fought with everything he had not to break the silence, but right now; there’s nothing he wants to do more.

“Sherlock.”

It’s just a single word, but the hope in John’s eyes leaves him flailing.

Reality crashes in, and so does the panic, because there are certain things he owes, words John needs and deserves to hear. He wants to offer them all.  But these are explanations Sherlock just can’t give. John must see the panic flooding Sherlock’s face, because he holds his hands up in surrender.

“It’s okay, it’s alright. Mycroft kidnapped me, he said that you weren’t…really speaking a lot, and I’m sorry; but I just had to see you.”

Sherlock has never been more thankful for Mycroft in his life. He should send a gift basket of weight loss shakes.

Cautiously Sherlock begins to relax, but at the same time he _aches_. For John and everything Sherlock put him through. Because Sherlock never dreamt he’d be so affected, and the frustration is killing him.

Because he _needs_ John to know how sorry he is, how just the sight of him makes everything hurt so much less. But the words won’t come. Instead he glues his eyes to John’s, wishing he could tell him so many things, trying to pour every ounce of guilt, all that regret into one expression.

Because Sherlock killed for him, he died for him, refused to break silence under torture. He would do _anything_ for this man. Anything but speak.

_I never wanted any of this, I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to go._

_I’m sorry John._

John’s eyes melt.

“God Sherlock, I missed you so much.”

Before Sherlock is ready, John starts striding across the room to the sofa. Sherlock wants to embrace him, to crush him, claw his fingers into John’s jumper and cry.

But John moves too quickly; and Sherlock throws himself violently in the other direction.

~

It happens in a heartbeat, the same electricity storm engulfing his amygdala. John freezes on the spot as Sherlock hyperventilates on the other side of the sofa, blanket astray, laptop hanging perilously between cushions and coffee table.

Sherlock’s fear response will be what ruins him; eyes wide, heart racing, his transport doing exactly the opposite of what it should.

Because this is _John_ , John is safe.

John is Sherlock’s friend, his _only_ friend, and Sherlock missed him more than he thought possible. He _wants_ John to hug him, to make him tea, to ruin his experiments, refuse to play Cluedo. Sherlock is selfish, John is familiar, and Sherlock is determined to have John back in his life. Permanently.

But he just can’t say it.

They stare at each other as Sherlock’s breathing calms down. John’s guilt stabbing him in the heart.

“Sorry. Shit. I didn’t mean to-”

John starts moving away, but it was only the shock, and Sherlock needs for him to see it was only a reflex. John understands exactly what happened of course, but Sherlock doesn’t want to set the tone for their reunion to be like this. With a forced calm, Sherlock untangles himself from the throw rug, and follows John’s retreat.

The fight or flight elements of his brain are still unsure, but Sherlock pushes it down. He hates the weight of the moment, that so much importance must be placed on simply moving towards his best friend. It’s just _walking_ for god’s sake; barely even eight steps. But Sherlock needs to reassure him it’s alright. He needs to reassure them both.

It’s ridiculous, because while Sherlock is wary of everything, suspicious of everyone; _never_ could he be afraid of John Watson.

Hesitantly, John meets him in the middle, or at least the last third.

After two years of insanity, _finally_ they’re standing toe to toe in 221B Baker Street, and though the conversation may be silent, it’s one of the most intense Sherlock has ever been party to. Comforted by whatever he finds in Sherlock’s face, John makes the first move and wraps him up.

“You mad bastard. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

John’s voice doesn’t quite break, but as they hold on, he starts crying softly into Sherlock’s shoulder. All he can do is lay his head on top of John’s and stare at the open doorway, at a loss for what to do. Because Sherlock has no idea how to fix this one.

“I thought... Jesus Sherlock.”

Physically, Sherlock is almost completely healed, so he uses his new-found strength to prove to John he’s real, that though he may be floundering, and the waters thrown him to the mercy of the rocks; he isn’t drowning. Sherlock holds him fiercely, with more passion than he knew he had.

When John pulls away to wipe his eyes, Sherlock keeps both of his hands on John’s shoulders, and tries to offer him a smile, even as his eyes water. An idea occurs to him and he pulls away, groping his way to the kitchen. Sherlock trusts John explicitly, knows that he would _never_ hurt him; but still can’t turn his back.

Just in case he does.

Sherlock stares down at the book in his hands, and his heart is racing; because even this is _bad_ , even this is _not_ okay. This is what almost killed six of the British intelligence service’s best men.

It’s still _words_ , it’s still _speech_.

But this is important, this is for John Watson. So he grits his teeth, forcing pen to paper as quickly as possible before his subconscious can catch up. It contains the only two words he can think of, the one desperate, selfish thing he needs John to hear.

**Come home.**

~

Sherlock’s initial reaction broke his heart. John’s seen stuff like this a thousand times, but this is _Sherlock_ , and Christ, the look in his eyes as he scrambled back, so terrified that he could barely breathe. John never wants to see that look again for the rest of his life.

Mycroft warned him not to expect too much; but all he offered were heavily watered-down explanations with absolutely no answers.

And for those first few seconds, John couldn’t make himself believe it; the Sherlock he saw wasn’t sick, he was just _Sherlock_ , brain dissecting every pore of John’s face. Impossibly alive and in one piece; hope, relief, maybe even joy in his eyes. Those are the things John was looking at.

Then came the fear. Sherlock was pleased to see him, there’s no denying that. But the initial relief that came from seeing John again after so long; it soon gave way to the impending complications of the present, and to see that panic was almost too much.

John didn’t come here to _pressure_ Sherlock _._ But yesterday, John thought his best friend was _dead_ in the ground. And now suddenly Sherlock Holmes is alive and at Baker Street, two years _after_ his funeral?

The universe performed his fucking _miracle_ ; it would be insane _not_ come.

But John’s first impressions made him reckless, and he forgot himself. He made a dumb decision, fuelled by his own relief and heartbreak. Because his joy; Sherlock was _afraid_ of it, without even meaning to be. Even just for a moment or two; Sherlock Holmes was afraid of John Watson.

And John should have known so much better.

He’s a bloody doctor, a soldier wounded in action for god’s sake. John knows the most difficult part of any trauma, or any mental illness; is the invisibility. Unnoticed and unprotected in a world where people assume only what they see, ignorance has the power to inflict untold damage on wounds unseen.

Perfectly normal on the surface; just because Sherlock doesn’t _look_ sick, doesn’t mean he’s not in agony, and there are limitless ways to keep him hurting.

The trauma is pronounced as it is invisible; because whatever happened to Sherlock was so terrible, it became physically, metaphorically, _literally_ unspeakable.

~

**Come home.**

John breaks his lease, quits his job, and moves back in within a day.

~

Meeting John Watson is the best thing that ever happened to him, and John being back in his life is a firm second. But life is unpredictable, and the best does not always cancel out the worst. Because Sherlock’s mind is at war with itself; ricocheting between the two in a perpetual and agonising state of confusion.

Because John is here, and so is Sherlock. He’s home, protected and secure; but for two years, safety existed only as a fantasy, and he just can’t accept it could be real.

Every single aspect of his life is a contradiction, and it’s too much to grasp.

So, in a desperate attempt to protect itself from the present, his mind is seeking relief in a coping measure it thinks to be infallible. Sherlock taught himself to look for data, to take the meaningless and latch on; observe everything, break it down, hide in the simplicity.

The minutia protected him against the worst of extremes, but now that defence mechanism; it’s twisting the knife.

Because Sherlock’s world is so much larger now, an environment violently uncontrolled; moving, speaking, changing state. This is not concrete, or the white walls of a hospital; every surface brings more contrast than the next, colours messy, blurring, and stacked all over each other. The detail is excruciating, because he can’t possibly take it all in.

_And he **must**._

Distractions are everywhere and there’s barely a moment he doesn’t startle or twitch. Through magnetic resonance imaging, Sherlock’s mind would light up brighter than the sun.

Sherlock loves his home, but he’d thought he’d _known_ it too, assumed his understanding of 221B to be the height of intimacy. A year ago, he could have drawn her from memory, each room in beautiful, _flawless_ detail.

Looking at it now; there’s a thousand things he would have missed.

He knew her only on the surface. But who would think to know pulled threads in the carpet, scratches in skirting boards? Who would take the time or the effort to deliberately notice something that trivial in their own home? Who would care? Sherlock Holmes was the most observant man on earth, and he never thought to.

Sherlock Holmes never cared about concrete.

It’s a compulsion. Sherlock’s mind insists that he _must_ ; trying and trying to recreate that headspace, that protection, screaming at him to look. Because if he doesn’t; they’ll break him.

Never completely mad, Sherlock’s occasional flickers of insanity were never quite severe enough to raise too much alarm; _disturbing_ yes, but not enough so to be out of his mind. Maybe to the outside world it was a different story, but those closest to him always knew he wasn’t crazy; sentiment awarding him a far more palatable excuse; he’s eccentric.

Eccentricities have _nothing_ on him now.

Because no sane person would attempt to analyse every letter on the spine of every book, to map and compare the depth and curvatures of each individual letter C. This is not the endearing quirks of a genius mind; this is _mental illness_.

Before it was an effort; now it controls him. It keeps happening; Sherlock’s fear response will switch on spontaneously, and when it does, Sherlock’s subconscious will not be stifled.

Slate cobblestones, concrete, the black queen; they haunt him.

Sherlock has to protect his mind in any way he can; it’s the only way to save them.

So not only can Sherlock not _speak_ , he’s practically catatonic; but beneath the surface he’s a flurry of activity, mind spinning dangerously fast. His eyes flit psychotically around the flat, unable to settle on anything, and this inability to concentrate only exacerbates the issue, because he’s looking, but he’s not doing it _properly_.

There’s just too much.

Sherlock sits, overdosing on sensory information, brain screaming and punishing himself for his inability to take it all in. His mind shouts and it shouts until he’s shaking, because he can’t seem to look, to find _just one thing_ to break down, and his brain is so loud it’s burning all the oxygen. His eyes start to sting, blurring from the intensity, and he panics; because he can’t _see_.

_He needs to look._

The minutia, he has to find them.

But he can’t, _he can’t, **he can’t**._

~

Something’s not right.

All morning John watches Sherlock as his stomach ties itself in knots. Because whatever it is he’s doing; it’s not healthy. The vibrating and hand twitching reminds him vaguely of the pre-Baskerville tantrum, but this isn’t boredom, and Sherlock is _not_ in his mind palace. It’s something else, something darker.

Sherlock is aware of his surroundings, he can tell that much, but only in a limited capacity. His eyes are moving too fast, his head jerking too spontaneously, and his face; _Oh Sherlock._

It happens sometimes; the reason Sherlock doesn’t like an audience for trips into his head. Sherlock’s face is very expressive, and it tends to break free a little when he’s not monitoring. And with Sherlock’s focus god knows where, John watches everything he’s feeling come pouring out in real time.

John sees Sherlock have an idea, put the weight of all his hope behind it, only for whatever _it_ is to disappear, crushing his momentum.

He’s searching, anxious to find something, only to lose the thread over and over. John doesn’t know what it is Sherlock is so very desperate to find, but with every time he fails, he gets more and more distressed.

Sherlock’s mind only speeds up, and he starts failing faster and harder, until he runs out of ideas completely. The fear in his eyes takes a nosedive to the left, and John watches as it turns to full blown panic with alarming speed.

“Sherlock?”

He does an auditory double take, but yes; Sherlock _is_ speaking, and with a terrible urgency.

_“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”_

John frowns, and mentally takes a step back.

He’s observed, trying to understand how Sherlock is interacting with the world, giving him space in the hope that it will work itself out. John doesn’t want to get in the way of a process he doesn’t understand, but Sherlock is stuck in a mental rut; one, John starts to realise, he might not be able to pull himself out of.

Time to come back to earth Icarus.

He moves around until he is directly in Sherlock’s line of sight and crouches before him.

“Sherlock, do you know where you are?”

Sherlock confirms John’s awareness theory by immediately looking at him. He studies John’s face for a long time, but his eyes move slower, running over his skin at a normal Sherlock speed. He nods once, and for whatever reason, the panic is falling away.

“D’you want tea?”

Sherlock’s expression moves away from fear and into something more familiar, eyebrows furrowed in a surprised sort of curiosity. And for the first time, John can’t see the pain.

Sherlock is waiting for a follow up, but John’s just waiting for an answer. Because it was a genuine question; the tea is in the pot, and John was just about to pour it out. It’s the first thing that popped into his head.

But from Sherlock’s perspective, John might _only_ have been trying to get his attention to ask if he wanted tea; completely oblivious to whatever else was going on. He thinks John snapped him out of it by pure coincidence.

Sherlock laughs, and it’s genuine. John smiles too because it’s ridiculous, because it _is_ funny that Sherlock could be saved from what looked to be a fledging mental breakdown by a cup of tea. Funny in a Bit Not Good sort of way; in _their_ way.

For John, it feels right. Like 221B is finally complete again; the _warmth_ is back. Sherlock must feel a flicker of it too, because he does something brilliant.

“Yes. I want tea.”

~

John is coping remarkably well with the whole not-speaking thing; and the acceptance comes significantly easier than for his brother. It confuses him, but then, there’s little that doesn’t.

John has always been hyper aware when it comes to Sherlock’s moods; just one _hint_ of emotional turmoil, and John is on edge. If he even _thinks_ it could be a ‘danger night,’ he’s overreacting times twelve; unnecessarily vigilant.

John Watson worries more than _Mycroft_ , just in a less militant sort of way. But Sherlock could be in real trouble this time, and if ever there was a place for genuine fear, it’s now. Instead John chooses to break completely with that precedence.

Sherlock gives him nothing but John refuses to answer Sherlock’s silence with more of the same. He talks enough for both of them, speaking to Sherlock like he’s actually _present_ ; like there is absolutely nothing wrong with him.

It’s exactly what no one _else_ did, and it helps that most of the questions he asks are ones Sherlock never used to answer anyway.

“What do you want for dinner? I’m making lamb.”

Sherlock won’t speak, but that doesn’t mean John doesn’t expect a _response_ , or that he’ll let Sherlock get away with ignoring him. He won’t.

John will still tell him off if he needs to, but he never yells, he doesn’t make sudden unaccounted for noises, and he’s careful to let Sherlock see what’s happening before he touches him. He also never asks Sherlock to speak. He never asks for _anything_ ; places no deadlines, no commitments, and not a single shred of responsibility.

Somehow, John knows exactly what he needs, and truthfully, the simplest of things; they’re saving Sherlock’s life. It feels like waking up, almost like he doesn’t _need_ to be numb anymore.

Sherlock should be dead, he should be broken beyond repair, and maybe he is broken. But even while he’s treading water in the sorrow, when he thinks he’s going under; John reminds him what it’s like to _laugh_. And he doesn’t understand how it can be possible.

He’ll shout;

“Oi Sherlock, come look at this.”

And Sherlock will come and watch whatever crap on the telly John’s bitching about. It’s bizarre, but EastEnders almost makes him feel normal. Sherlock listens to John’s commentary; and has never been surer of anything in his life.

It was worth it.

~

It takes about two weeks for Sherlock’s brain to stop needing the minutia just to exist, and nearly three days before Sherlock cottons on to the fact that John’s timing _is_ too good to be true. It’s not just accidental, John is somehow _noticing_ the moments when everything starts to snowball, and consciously deciding to do something about it.

Sherlock thinks he might be annoyed if it wasn’t so spectacularly successful.

And slowly but surely, Sherlock begins to find his voice.

~

It happens completely by accident, and each time it _terrifies_ him, because it takes a second or two before Sherlock even realises what he’s done. His control is slipping, and the consequences are something he can’t bear to face.

Brain screaming, feeling like he wants to just curl up and die, the horror of failure kicks him in the gut. Sherlock wants tea, he asks for it, and waits for Neck Tattoos to burst in, vodka bottle in hand.

_John’s dead, he’s dead, everyone is dead._

He’ll shut his eyes and pray for it to be over, pray to every god he doesn’t believe in for the universe to miss his mistake; _please_ , _just one more chance_. His mind tortures himself as they did, recalling every second of his life that means nothing now Moriarty has won.

Sherlock doesn’t want tea anymore; he waits for the bullet between his eyes, and almost want to do it himself. To die for _self-preservation_. Die first so he doesn’t have to watch it happen to John.

“I’ll put the kettle on in a minute, I just need to figure out six down.”

John is alive, and cares more about his crossword than his own mortality.

Sherlock stares at him because he’s _insane;_ but bullets don’t rain from the sky. Lestrade, John, Mrs Hudson; they’re not dragged down into an endless night. The snipers are imaginary; no one will die today.

After the sixth time, he almost starts to believe it.

~

For someone who is practically mute, he still manages to be a complete twat.

But irritating is good, it means he’s adjusting. Sherlock doesn’t speak, he’s hurt, and yes, he’s suffering; but beneath all that, Sherlock is still there, and John can see him plain as day.

Because Sherlock hasn’t changed.

Trauma is messing with his head, but he’s still John’s best friend, and he’s just as brilliant and annoying as he was when he left. Sherlock isn’t talking, but John couldn’t care less; because he’s _breathing_. And breathing is _not_ boring, not even close.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

But not only is Sherlock adjusting, he’s positively obliterating all his brother’s predictions. Because whatever Mycroft saw in Sherlock; it frightened him, and typically, in true Mycroft style, he catapulted himself straight into damage control, worst case scenarios.

He thought Sherlock might never recover, but in all Mycroft’s pessimism, there was still John Watson. Everyone knows John is the way to get to Sherlock, and Mycroft’s desperate hope, was that he’d also be the way to reach him. Maybe the only thing left that could.

So, Mycroft snatched John from the street in the middle of a date. He kidnapped, shouted at, and held him hostage for three hours; forcing him to listen.

John knew Sherlock cared for him, but this is on a different level; he never believed it could be enough, that just being here would affect Sherlock in the way it does. Because he’s not even _doing_ anything; and Sherlock is talking, he’s _smiling_ , he’s almost content.

Mycroft Holmes was _right_. Bastard.

~

“Do you want me to come down when you have nightmares?”

The openness of the question makes Sherlock freeze, but John has framed it carefully. There’s no confrontation, because John’s not asking _if_ Sherlock has nightmares; he does and they both know it. Bad ones. Night terrors too. And not only is John acknowledging that, he’s asking what Sherlock _wants_.

It’s a simple yes or no question, and Sherlock doesn’t have to speak to be heard. No eye contact necessary, just a nod or shake of the head.

John is allowing Sherlock to call the shots, thus eradicating any potentially devastating miscommunications; but he’s _normalising_ it too. With one condition; John is making it perfectly clear that denial is not an option, not this time.

Honesty has never been one of his strongest attributes, and avoiding the problem entirely is usually the preferred way to go. They never talked about these things before, but it paves a way forward Sherlock didn’t even think about.

Because now when John finds him screaming or clinging to the toilet bowl in the night; they both know the reason and can decide together how the situation can best be handled.

But there are only two answers, and both of them are wrong.

Sherlock says no; Pain, Fear, Sorrow, Grief. The descending bubble of despair.

Sherlock says yes; Pain, Fear, Sorrow, Grief. _Comfort_ , _Warmth, Safety_. The ever-present and very real threat that Sherlock will deliberately and viciously kill John Watson as they both sleep.

The sorrow always wins.

~

It’s two thirty four in the morning, and Sherlock is polishing his violin. Painstakingly.

Using six microfiber cloths, he applies the polish through an automatic microbiology pipette; determined to ensure every millimetre is treated equally. The results are breathtaking, no overlap lines, no patches of discrepancy; she’s perfect.

He’s coping again, but there’s an element of restraint to his mania, and this time the small-scale focus is at least partially a conscious choice.

Sherlock doesn’t remember, and he’s not agonising over it, but knowing is enough to keep him awake. He supposes night terrors are kind in this regard; you lie in absolute agony and terror for roughly twenty minutes, screaming, throwing things, writhing, begging. But when your eyes flutter open; the pain doesn’t follow you.

He probably wouldn’t even have known it happened, if he hadn’t woken up on the floor covered in his own blood. He’d been scratching at non-existent restraints so violently he’s broken the skin. Typically, his wrists and not his ankles.

The instability is definitely on the retreat, but moments like this stir doubt back into the mixture. Because just like any other perfectly well-adjusted member of society, he’s just _scratched himself until he bled_ _in his sleep_. Frustration makes him want to scream, because why won’t it just _stop?_

It’s over, it’s all over and he made it out alive. He’s safe; he _feels_ safe. It’s been years, but he’s _here_ , a place where he finally _can_ be; and the reason is logical fact without fault. John is here too.

Because good things in life are notoriously hard to find, but he thinks maybe the best are the ones you don’t; they find you. Because while Sherlock may not like that it could be true for anyone; John Watson is _perfect_ for him.

~

Sleep is essential, but can just as easily turn toxic, and Sherlock is not the only one hurting.

After his suicide, the nightmares came back with a vengeance. They came in the form of Afghanistan, St. Barts, and often a terrible cocktail of the two. Sherlock dying was a pretty popular trend. They eased a little in frequency as time went on, but never got any less raw.

He limped through the funeral.

John Watson is a survivor, that’s just what he does, and to survive; there was only one thing he _could_ do. He had to put as much distance between himself and the memory of Sherlock Holmes as physically possible. Moving out of Baker Street was excruciating, but he just couldn’t do it anymore.

The association is still there; John wakes up in the middle of the night knowing full well Sherlock is just a floor below him. Maybe sleeping, maybe reading, maybe watching crap tv. He might even be about to accidentally poison himself.

But it doesn’t matter what he’s doing, or that he’s alive, or whether John dreams about his death or not. It’s this room, this lonely, haunted single bed. He’s stuck on nights spent right here, just in a devastatingly different context.

He tries to close his eyes and relax, but his body just won’t listen.

~

Sherlock wakes up and can’t breathe.

_He’s drowning._

But there’s no water. No bag over his head, no hands holding him down. His face is being smothered by something both hard and soft, restricting all movement. But no restraints? Instinctively Sherlock fights back, working one leg free and kicking out viciously, only to smash his toes into solid wood.

_Look._

He can’t see, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to observe. A scent catches his attention; aniseed, with a sweet cloying undertone, horrendous, but _familiar_. Mrs Hudson and her stupid reed diffusers; a welcome home gift. Worst present he ever received.

The fight drains out of him. It’s happened again.

His whole body is forced up parallel to the foot of the bed, bedding tangled between them. But he actually _is_ suffocating, and thrashing around almost finished the job.

Because the top sheet has twisted itself around his ankles in the night; parts of it becoming taut, others trapped beneath his weight, thus creating a complex web of cause and effect. His right knee is firmly restricted, and any downwards motion on its part only further constricts the knot on the other end.

The result is effectively a noose.

Carefully untangling himself, he pulls his head away from the duvet and gasps for air.

The scratching was bad, but now he’s nearly _asphyxiated_ _himself_.

And Sherlock has had quite enough of drowning.

~

John screws his face up and tries his very best not to cry.

On the floor below, Sherlock’s mind is torturing him, and it’s probably literal.

John told himself not to expect anything, even if that meant accepting the silence could be permanent. It’s one word at a time, they’re few and far in-between, but progress is progress.

It’s difficult to play it cool, but Sherlock struggles with it enough as it is, and John knows how these things work. There was clearly a very strong reason to supress it, and to make a big deal out of Sherlock speaking will only succeed in reminding him why he must _not_.

Screams say a lot more than words.

It’s worse than he’d expected. Hearing is more than enough to imagine what the dreams do to him, and quite firmly, John has decided that unless Sherlock decides to tell him; under no circumstances does he ever want to know.

He just wants to make them stop.

Leaving the door open is torture in itself; but tonight, he’s thankful he did, because Sherlock’s shadow is reaching out to him.

“You can’t touch me.”

It’s both a sentence and unprompted, but there’s no joy for John this time.

Their melodies are back in sync, and John understands him in a way no one else can. He can follow trains of thought that shouldn’t make sense, and in those four words, a lot is said.

“I promise.”

As Sherlock vanishes down the stairs, John knows he’s meant to follow.

John’s bed is too small for two.

~

It’s selfish, and dangerous in more ways than one.

Because John _is_ perfect for him, and Sherlock will kill him anyway.

But he needs this. Because the sorrow and despair have controlled him for too long. Sherlock is sick of concrete, and tired of the fear; he doesn’t want to think about slate cobblestones anymore.

Sherlock thought nothing could fix him. John Watson is proving him wrong.

~

John wakes up to the sounds of thrashing, sheets pulling tight around his waist. Sherlock’s conditions in mind, he frees the sheets from under him, and scoots to the far end of the bed. Sherlock doesn’t scream, but his limbs flail helplessly, despair etched into every pore.

It doesn’t take long to turn violent, a sort of rage John’s never seen from him before; Sherlock is fighting back this time, and John’s almost scared of the unfamiliarity in his face. It’s what Sherlock tried to warn him.

Because he sees it now, what Sherlock was really saying. This isn’t just about the risk of a broken arm; Sherlock thinks he’ll kill him.

And looking at him now, in the panic of the moment; John believes he could.

_What have they done to you?_

John gets off the bed.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and he starts to relax, but, almost as quickly, he senses John’s presence. The rage is back in an instant; defensive and ready to lash out, John sees him reach for the gun he fervently hopes isn’t real.

“Sherlock?”

It takes less than a second for Sherlock to recognise the sound of his voice; one blink, and he’s back. Another, and he’s horrified, pulling himself back to his side of the mattress, pupils fully dilated.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.”

John climbs back into bed, trying to calm him down. He sees a mind split into two halves; how much Sherlock needs him, and how so very terrified he is to lose him.

 “No. Don’t, please don’t.”

John sits about a half metre away, just waiting. In the end, Sherlock closes the distance himself, reaching for John; begging him not to, and clinging to him all the same.

“I was going to, I nearly-”

Sherlock is fast and breathy in his panic, but John squeezes him gently.

“You didn’t nearly anything Sherlock; you didn’t even try. You heard me; one word, and you knew it was me.”

It takes a full half hour to calm him down, but he sleeps soundly for the next four days in a row with John at his side.

~

Voices. He can hear them talking, only a few metres away.

 _They’re coming for him_.

The voices are paralysing, and Sherlock absolutely cannot do this, not again. His mind is already cracking under pressure as it is; he thought he was safe, but it was idiocy to let his guard drop. One millimetre at a time, he pushes the door flush, chest so tight he can hardly breathe. Reluctantly he forgoes the lock; the noise would draw too much attention.

It’s too late for the rest of the flat, but the bedroom will have to do; he sweeps through, collecting every scrap of evidence that might even hint to his existence, including the rubbish. He pulls the sheets from the bed and climbs right out the window.

He sits on the fire escape in the freezing cold; clutching the linin. Something rolls off and crashes onto Mrs Hudson’s bins.

In hysterics, his mind obsessively searches for something he missed. There’s too much; evidence littered throughout the flat, and he forgot to even do the _bathroom_. He’s furious at himself for not sitting further along the walkway.

His madness is justified; the sound of voices approaching. This is it. They’ll find him, they must.

He wants to die, for hell to swallow him up; to bargain for his soup. He was wrong. It’s not safe here. He needs to run, to hide, to forget Sherlock Holmes.

Light on his feet; in seconds Sherlock goes from the fire escape to the railing, to the top of the wall and down onto the skip in the alleyway parallel to Mrs Hudson’s garden. But the rush of movement brings on a dizzy spell mid-jump, and the surface of the skip is coated by a thin layer of oil; causing his blood pressure to plummet and his landing unsteady.

He slips off the edge as his surroundings fade to black.

~

The pre-faint only lasts about forty five seconds, but the impact is enough to bring him crashing back to reality.

Sherlock lies on the floor as he catches his breath and feels like a fool. In his panic, the only thing he’d thought to take with him was an old leather jacket; a relic of his time away. Still in his pyjamas, he has no shoes, no phone, no wallet; anything.

The only thing in his pockets; a half empty packet of cigarettes, and of all things, the stolen black queen.

He glares at her, this stupid chess piece, and the illogical associations that come with her. She wasn’t even _there_ , not until Germany, not until he was free. Still, she always finds a way to follow him. He decides never to choose black on a chess board again, just out of spite. He’ll take her out of play himself.

Even if he _were_ still disoriented enough to follow through, as far as escape plans go, it was atrocious.

It’s the barber all over again.

He thought he’d been doing so much better.

Something is digging into his back, the surface beneath him uneven, and lying down like this is incredibly painful. He pulls himself up and tries to get his bearings.

Slate cobblestones.

The alleyway. It’s paved with slate coloured cobblestones.

Sherlock’s brain goes disturbingly blank. For a moment he just stares, running his palm across the surface, thinking of the lie.

_They’re more uncomfortable than concrete._

He can physically feel the scream building in his chest.

~

He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.

Just imagining Sherlock; panicked and alone, running around the city in the middle of the night with no plan, no destination…

John _has_ to find him.

Slamming the door behind him, he jogs out onto the street, whirling around. Sherlock has a good head start on him, and John has no idea which direction to take; he could be _anywhere_ by now. This is London, and if Sherlock wants to hide; he’ll stay hidden. Unless John finds him first.

He turns left on a whim, because people always think right, don’t they? The ‘right’ way. Like the comfort of an even number over an odd.

He walks right past the alley, stops, doubling back on the slimmest of hunches; tobacco smoke.

_Please god let it be him._

John finds Sherlock sitting on his arse behind a skip; barefoot and aggressively chainsmoking.

“Sherlock?”

“Sorry, panicked.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem sorry in the slightest, he’s not even afraid; just incredibly pissed off. John on the other hand is utterly _paralysed_ with fear.

“You climbed out the _window_.”

“Didn’t really think it through.”

John sits down next to him, and Sherlock doesn’t flinch; if anything he looks better than he has in weeks. Sherlock continues to glare accusingly at the wall, pulling the cigarette from his mouth roughly with each drag, furious with himself.

He’s holding something; a single chess piece, clenched so tightly in his fist John thinks it might break.

Sherlock is quiet for a long time, crushing his cigarette out unnecessarily violently, and immediately lighting another. Abruptly, he changes topic away from his daring escape.

“Do you remember visiting my grave? It was about a week after the funeral.”

John swallows, taken off guard. Because he doesn’t talk about these things, and he doesn’t want to; visiting Sherlock’s grave, talking to his best friend’s headstone. It was a private moment, and not something he wants to remember. Or spill his guts about.

_One more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

“You only went the once.”

“Yeah, well.”

He’s not really the sort of person who visits graveyards. It wasn’t going to bring him back, and standing there, staring at Sherlock’s headstone, confronted with the physical proof of his death? It only made things that much harder.

_Don’t be...dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this._

Mrs Hudson used to go every week, but always alone. Some people might see it as a sign of not caring, but John just didn’t want to stand on his best friend’s corpse.

“You asked for your miracle.”

John looks at him for a moment, because not only is Sherlock talking, he’s talking freely, eloquently, and without fear. They’re having a _conversation_ , and Sherlock sounds normal; his voice is still resigned but not in the way it was, not for the actual _task_ of speaking. It’s been a lot better recently, but there’s no pauses between words, no swallowing or apprehension.

Then it occurs to him.

_How could he **possibly** know that?_

Realisation comes, and John feels his spinal cord turning to steel.

“You were there.”

John is furious, _humiliated_.

“Yes.”

“You heard everything I said. All of it. Stood there and watched me grieving. You _eavesdropped_ at your _own grave_.”

Great. Because _of_ _course_ he did, because it’s such a _typical_ Sherlock thing to do; impossible, egotistical, overdramatic, and wrong on every screwed up moral level to exist. Visiting his own grave, hearing all the things people said about him, judging whether the headstone was nice enough. He just couldn’t resist.

Sherlock ducks his head, fiddling with the chess piece.

“That was private Sherlock! I was _grieving_. I just needed a moment, just _one_ _moment_ of privacy, to say goodbye to my-”

Best friend.

Oh.

 _Sherlock_ is his best friend.

That was _Sherlock’s_ grave.

He was talking to _Sherlock_ ; those words were _for_ Sherlock; and he heard them. Words John never dreamt he’d be alive to listen to. It’s strange, almost like he was talking to a different _version_ of Sherlock, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

John never would have said that to him when he was alive.

Sort of like writing letters to someone in your diary, then being horrified when they read them. They’re your inner thoughts, and they’re true; just never meant to be heard. John gave himself a moment of weakness, permission to say them out loud. He’d never take them back, but that doesn’t mean he’s not embarrassed.

With his index finger, Sherlock gently knocks over the black queen onto the paving stones, watching as it rolls into the grout.

“I’m sorry for intruding. I’m sorry you were there in the first place. I…I just need you to know; that I was alone too, and I owe you more than you could ever know.”

~

Sherlock makes no move to get up, or to right to chess piece, he just watches it like it’s the most captivating thing on earth, not angry anymore, just achingly sad.

 “They tortured me, Moriarty’s people, but I’m sure you know that by now. It’s not exactly a difficult leap.”

He’s right, it’s not news. He’d known that whatever happened to Sherlock was something along those lines, he just didn’t want it to be _true_.

“How long?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him, jaw tightening, but his answer is immediate.

“Three weeks.”

John shuts his eyes.

There was a man in Afghanistan, not one of John’s, who was captured on patrol. They had him for four days before he made it out, and he was a mess. It was a fight to save his life; multiple surgeries, facial reconstruction, skin grafts. Killed himself two years later in his living room.

Four days is too long. _One_ day is too long. Three weeks is unimaginable.

“ _Jesus Christ.”_

“Mmm, enough time to do significant damage.”

It’s enough time to kill someone eighty times over. John tries to formulate some sort of response, picturing it, trying _not_ to picture it, and coming up empty handed. Neither of them are very good at this, but what can you even say to something like that?

Sherlock looks up at the sky and lifts his eyebrows in a wry smile.

“I was nearly done too, Serbia was the last stop. On the home stretch.”

He says it like he’s shrugging it off, a musical tone to the last sentence, accentuating the last word almost jokingly. The irony makes John wants to cry, still, he tries to push the rest aside for a minute and focus on the positive.

“But you got out?”

The positive evaporates as Sherlock sucks his lip into his mouth, looking back down to the chess piece with a tiny shake of his head.

“Not like that.”

He takes a very deep drag, and John watches the line of his jaw, the shadow of his cheekbones, as he blows it out into the night. Smoking is repulsive, but Sherlock always makes everything look so elegant.

“I escaped once. But they made sure it wouldn’t happen again.”

It doesn’t feel real, that not that long ago, Sherlock was half a world away being _tortured_ , and now they’re sitting on the floor of some filthy alleyway, both in their pyjamas, discussing it like it was the weather. Because it does feel _exactly_ like that; Sherlock is freakishly calm about the whole thing.

Maybe it’s acceptance, or maybe he’s just trying to make it easier for John, when for months it’s been haunting his every second. Because it’s horrifying to think that all this time, John’s been waltzing around the city, while Sherlock was, quite literally, trapped in living hell. Dead, but still so painfully alive.

“I had a day left, maybe two. Mycroft came just in time.”

John grits his teeth bitterly.

“Or three weeks too late.”

Sherlock hums, but he doesn’t seem to agree; running his fingers along the paving stones almost reverently.

They fall silent, Sherlock lighting another cigarette as John counts the butts and struggles to keep his mouth shut. It’s not really great timing for a lecture about his health, not that it ever did any good before.

Because Sherlock is _talking_ about it, he’s sharing that trauma with John, and it’s one of those moments, that just shouldn’t be broken.

They spend ages watching the sky; appreciating but not caring about the stars.

“Bloody hell it’s cold.”

Sherlock must agree, because he stands, straightens his t-shirt like it was one of Armani’s best jackets, and pulls John up. Then, with a strange sense of victory; kicks away the black queen.

Sherlock turns his face directly to look at John, completely deadpan.

“You know John, I’d rather like some tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I am very appreciative of criticism, but not this time guys.


End file.
